


thaw

by twofrontteethstillcrooked



Series: Les Mis snippetfic [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Future, Drabble, M/M, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 06:20:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3239477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twofrontteethstillcrooked/pseuds/twofrontteethstillcrooked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was so fucking tired of being tired, and being cold, and being cold and tired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	thaw

**Author's Note:**

  * For [clenster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clenster/gifts).



> Clenster was recently talking about 'au where it's cold all the time' and 'e/r huddling for warmth' and that plus 'e/R are roomates for no apparent reason' ate my brain
> 
> also, it's snowing

As the sun set the sole benefit from plummeting temperatures was the snow freezing solid again. Enjolras was able to trudge back to the minuscule cabin more sure-footed than earlier in the day, when every step seemed designed to pitch him into another in an endless series of icy holes. 

Some days, the long hike home, in combination with five layers of clothing, was enough to insulate him from both bitter weather and a few nagging doubts. This was not one of those days. He was so fucking tired of being tired, and being cold, and being cold and tired.

From relief rather than anger when he reached the cabin he flung the door open with more force than perhaps was necessary. He heard Feuilly divert mid-sentence to ask over the comm, "Were you just hit by a bomb, by chance?"

Grantaire, standing with palms presented to the wood stove in the corner of the main room, chuckled and said, "No. Well, yes: Enjolras has arrived."

"How many today, Enjolras?" asked Feuilly.

"Only two," Enjolras said, gasping as he took off his boots and damp socks and wiggled his numb toes. "I regret to say."

"Don't worry about it," Feuilly said, "you went one village further than literally everyone else."

"Except me," Grantaire said, "since I didn't go anywhere."

Enjolras stood up and struggled out of his wet scarves and coat; what seemed like a snowball's worth of ice was melting down the back of his neck, and between this and the entire existence of Grantaire, he did not trust himself to say anything polite, so he said nothing. Just as well: it was all he could do to keep his teeth from audibly chattering. 

Prouvaire had made it to Feuilly's outpost and was telling Grantaire about the workers he'd met with. 

"They're ready to move as soon as there's a significant thaw, though obviously we're months away from that. But we're making a difference," Prouvaire said. 

Grantaire snorted, and Prouvaire said cheerfully, "We are going to be triumphant come spring! Wait and see." 

Grantaire waved a sarcastic hand at the comm-screen. "Spring is an archaic concept, not unlike revolution."

Prouvaire blew a raspberry at him, and Enjolras saw Feuilly huff, though he was smiling, in the way people had to around Grantaire.

Enjolras sat heavily on his cot under the window, closed his eyes for a second, and realized there was ice on his eyelashes. Ugh. 

"Thanks for the pan of French toast, by the way," Feuilly said to Grantaire. "We're rationing it, but it's difficult when it's this delicious."

"Whatever you traded for maple syrup was worth it," Prouvaire said, sounding nearly swoony.

Enjolras looked up from unbuttoning his sweater to see some reaction he couldn't place flicker over Grantaire's features.

Grantaire coughed a little and answered like it was nothing. "Glad you like it," he told Prouvaire with sincerity.

Excited clamoring coalesced from the background white noise on the outpost's end, and Bahorel's fluffily bearded face came into view on the comm-screen. "Dinner," he yelled, grinning. There was snow on his eyebrows.

"We'll call in an hour," Feuilly said from somewhere behind the plaid wall of Bahorel's chest.

"Enjoy," said Grantaire, saluting back. The screen went black.

Enjolras stared at it another minute from across the room and must have drifted; he started when he felt Grantaire's hands on his ankles.

"Just me," Grantaire said. He unrolled something long from his fingers -- a dry wool sock. Enjolras watched him pick his left foot up gingerly, propping it on his thigh and slipping it into the sock, which was hot as if right from the dryer, an appliance none of them had seen in months. He repeated this with Enjolras's right foot and another sock.

"Why are they hot?" Enjolras mumbled, confused but also very sleepy.

"Had them on the stovetop when you came in," Grantaire said. His face, near at level with Enjolras's, seemed open and earnest, a silly notion when Enjolras considered almost everything he knew about Grantaire. 

"Hey," Grantaire said, a hand on Enjolras's elbow. He was on the cot beside him now; Enjolras got the impression he'd been talking for several minutes and wasn't certain what he'd been saying. "You're shivering."

"Lie down," Enjolras said. His voice was quiet but it was a command, not a request. 

A piece of Enjolras's mind lit up at how quickly Grantaire obeyed. The larger part of his brain locked onto the sight of Grantaire's collarbone and throat, bared where his well-worn sweater was fraying. The cot probably wasn't built for two bodies but Enjolras was willing to take that chance. He stretched out half on top of Grantaire without further permission and Grantaire had him wrapped in a blanket before he could count to ten.

"Why do you smell like nutmeg?" Enjolras said. He sounded grouchy, even to his own ears. 

"Um. Maybe from the oatmeal this morning?" Grantaire suggested. 

It was great oatmeal. Enjolras hadn't said so at the time. Grantaire threaded his fingers through Enjolras's hair and began to rub tiny circles into Enjolras's scalp. 

Enjolras kept his face pressed against Grantaire's throat since it was every bit as warm as it looked. He ran his right hand under Grantaire's sweater, where Grantaire's skin was warmer still. Grantaire's fingers never stopped moving, as though he knew Enjolras didn't mean to be grouchy.

"Thank you," Enjolras thought to whisper, and let sleep claim him for a while.


End file.
